


Turnabout

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BDSM, Canon Era, F/F, Musketeers Ladies Appreciation Week, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Shh, it’s alright.” Anne’s looking at her with the full force of that quiet, calm certainty that moves armies and brings statesmen to their knees, that never fails to make Constance lift her chin just to feel it.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>How could she have ever thought to command such a one?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mimesere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimesere/gifts).



> For [Musketeers Ladies Appreciation Week](http://whyshouldmenhaveallthefun.tumblr.com/); and for [mimesere](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/mimesere), who planted the seed.

They only try it the other way round once.

At first Constance thinks that perhaps she could learn to love this, given time; it feels like balancing on a ledge, both thrilling and unnatural to her to be so deliberately forceful – and not just reacting to events but cool and considered, never looking down – until she realises it sits as badly on Anne as one of Constance’s own workaday dresses would, her chin taking on that certain stubborn set that reminds Constance of nothing more than the way Anne looks when she pretends the King has not upset her.

That, for Constance, is more than enough – and she hands the ties to the drapes back with bowed head as she says what they were both thinking: “I’m sorry. This isn’t working,” her tone already pleading, falling as neatly back into Anne’s reaching hands as the lengths of embroidered fabric.

“Shh, it’s alright.” Anne’s already rolling off her knees as she reaches for Constance’s own hands, looking at her with the full force of that quiet, calm certainty that moves armies and brings statesmen to their knees, that never fails to make Constance lift her chin just to feel it.

How could she have ever thought to command such a one?

As if reading her thoughts, Anne holds up her hand and lets Constance step forward, leaning into her touch as if seeking benediction. “It’s not wrong to want to try.” The other hand pats the mattress. “Turn around, and sit between my legs. Now, would you like your Anne back? Ask me.”

“Yes, please – Anne.” Even just saying it is starting to make her wet, the melody of it a song under her skin as her body feels itself slotting into place, coming home. Anne’s neck is warm against her lips as Constance lets herself be pulled back into her body and Anne’s hands hike her legs up, spreading them as her hand pushes beneath Constance’s chemise, touch fleeting against the bare skin above her stocking top, gentle enough to make her shiver.

All she wanted was to make Anne feel the way she feels in Anne’s arms. To hold her so tight she can barely draw breath; to make her feel safer than she’s ever felt, more grounded, more _real._

But it isn’t needed: Constance knows already that Anne feels exactly that way to hold her. In this room there are no kings, no husbands; just they two in the candlelight, down to their chemises, their hair plaited for bed – and the ties of the drapes, their clever fingers and silver tongues as Constance pours everything she has into her lover and fills her to the brim.

Anne loves her. Anne lets her choose. Anne crawls between her legs like a wildcat and uses her mouth on her until she’s half a breath from crying out and then holds her in her arms as she takes her fully apart.

Anne tells Constance she’s good, she’s desired, tells her just how to touch her as she loops Constance’s plait around her hand and tugs her into an open-mouthed kiss, messy and demanding, Constance’s own musk sitting heavy on her tongue. Anne rolls onto her back and pulls Constance with her, holds her head in place as she sucks at one nipple through the linen, her fingers doing their steady work until Anne’s breathy moans become sharper and higher and Constance can just imagine the way she looks now, the way her eyes widen and her mouth forms a perfect O of pleasure, as if for just a moment all this is more than she ever thought.

And then she holds Constance even more tightly to her breast and sucks her glistening fingers clean; and they are –

_they are –_

and every time, she’ll lower herself gladly into those hands.

 


End file.
